Somewhere in the ancient jungles of Arcadia, now buried beneath feet of snow, a girl crouches huddled over her mother's broken body, preparing to fend off half a dozen circling direwolves with nothing but a bloody sharpened stick, praying desperately for the Dawnflower to save her.
It's one of a thousand very similar prayers that Sarenrae can hear at every moment. For the time being, nearly Her entire attention is concentrated on this one planet—the vast majority of it, of course, on the Enemy in his weakened prison, but that leaves enough left over to hear the desperate prayers of the dying. She doesn't answer them, because for most people on this planet every moment they spend alive takes them farther from Nirvana, but She does hear them. She is not, actually, the sort of entity that can choose not to do that.
Some people on Golarion, who identify Her with the star they can no longer see, have been saying the Sun is dead. That's not true, of Her or the star, but it is true that She's chosen almost no new clerics on Golarion since the algollthu broke the planet, that She seems to be turning her back on the prayers of Her faithful in the hour of their greatest need. The truth they don't see, however, is that not doing that would be worse. Half of all possible worlds leading forward from this point end with Golarion devoid of sapient life, and these are the ones She's aiming for. Most of them will make it somewhere they'll be happy, and the gods will be able to place a permanent seal on the Cage, the kind incompatible with close proximity to mortal life, and the planet will avoid falling perpetually into violent anarchy or the rule of the dead and feeding the Abyss with souls for thousands of years to come.
The girl praying to Her right now knows this. Her mother was one of Sarenrae's clerics, and every time she conjured food for her tiny village she explained how, if you didn't have children or anyone else depending on you, the best thing for you to do was to go out and lie down in the snow, and there would be a feast prepared for you under the warm sun in Nirvana. The girl has heard this speech a thousand times. She just—doesn't accept it.
There's also very little Sarenrae can even do here. She doesn't have any other clerics nearby, and given the urgency of the situation the girl would almost certainly can't be rescued except by Teleport. There are a handful of wizards on the planet that can do that, and all of them are Evil; none of them have a cleric of hers traveling with them, and it would be quite expensive to reach any of them directly. But—
There's one Teleport-capable wizard whose thread of prophecy is bright and golden even though the man himself is bound for Hell, bright and also surprisingly clear—she can trace it ten thousand years into the future, and wrapped around it is almost the whole of the tiny sheaf of worlds that not only survive but go on to heal, and if Arazni's thread twines with his then it stays twined, and uplifts him, and bends him toward the Good.
It's not a very large chance. It's a very small one, actually. But even having, practically speaking, given up on Golarion, She is still the goddess of hope, and where her light shines small chances have a tendency to grow. And so she reaches out, to a Lawful Evil archmage on the other side of the planet from Xopatl, and—